“If you lose another finger, who’s going to get your girlfriend off?” I waved the thick blade in front of Vigo’s eyes, which promptly began bugging out. “You’ve already lost the bird finger. I’m going to take this one.” I slammed Vigo’s hand down on the desk and pinned his index finger as David held him still.

“Just tell him.” Peter hovered at my elbow, his pistol pointed at Vigo’s sweaty forehead.

“I swear it wasn’t me.” Vigo shook his head as much as David’s grip would allow.

I stabbed the knife into the desk, only half an inch from Vigo’s finger. He screamed, and the scent of hot piss filled the musty back office.

Peter groaned. “Jesus, Vigo. Have some self-respect.”

“It wasn’t me.” Tears leaked down Vigo’s pasty face and dribbled along his stubbly cheeks. He was a low level nobody—the guy in gangster movies who always wound up with an anonymous death long before the credits rolled.

I stood and used the tip of the blade to scratch my chin. Did I think he was telling the truth? Maybe. Did it matter? No. What mattered was that on his watch, an entire shipment of the choicest weed Mexico had to offer went missing and wound up in the hands of the fucking Russians. Two of my men died, and the piece of shit Vigo was the only survivor. Sketchy as fuck. But even if he wasn’t working with the Russians, I’d still have to make an example of him.

In the five years since I became the head of our organization, I’d worked nonstop to tighten the ship, streamline our services, and propagate a legitimate front for all the dirty-dealing that went on behind the scenes. The Russians, and now Vigo, were a threat to all my progress.

I ran a fingertip down the faint scar along my jaw—a bullet graze from the latest attempt on my life. They’d been trying to move in on our turf and take what was ours. From the minute the old boss, Vince, choked on his own blood, the Russians had been poking and prodding. Testing and taking. But that would all come to an end within the month when I allied with the Irish for control of the entire city. Then I’d handle the Russians—go fucking rathole by rathole if I had to—and eliminate every mobster who so much as looked at me wrong.

For the time being, though, I had to hold it all together. The easiest glue I’d ever found was fear. It sealed the holes right up and kept my men in line.

“Hold him.” I pointed my blade at David.

“No!” Vigo squealed.

“I take no pleasure in this.” I twirled my blade in my palm. “But be thankful it’s not your life I’m taking.” I leaned down and met Vigo’s beady eyes. “If I so much as get a tickle in my ass crack that leads me to believe you’re with the Russians, I’ll send David to finish you.”

David laughed low in his throat. If fear was my glue, it was his art form. His nickname, the Butcher, was well earned. Handy with a gun, but beautifully lethal with a knife, he could carve a man up like a Honeybaked Ham and smile while he did it.

“Send your girl on over to my place.” Peter wiggled his free hand in front of Vigo. “I’ll give her the three-finger special since you’ll be out of commission.”

Vigo’s tears began anew as I pinned his index finger to the desk. I would make it quick, then send him on his way to the hospital.

“Don’t fuck up again.” I kept my gaze tied with his as I swung the knife in a vicious downward arc.

His finger came off clean right at the joint, a spurt of blood shooting out and spraying the front of my light blue button-down. He screamed as I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and wrapped the nub. It matched his missing bird finger, though given the scarring, my cut had been far more precise.

David released Vigo, who clutched his maimed hand to his chest.

Peter snagged the finger. “Can’t have you trying for a medical miracle, now can we?”

Vigo blubbered as I wiped my knife on his shirt sleeve then pocketed it.

“Get him an ambulance.” I pointed to Peter. “Industrial accident.”

He nodded and pulled his cell from his pocket. The three of us left the Trenholm Shipping office as Vigo sniffled and wailed behind us. Three of our guys stood next to the trucks, their eyes wide as we passed.

“The fuck you think this is? Break time?” David banged his fist on the side of one of the trailers. “Get to fucking work.”

They started moving, loading pallets of bottled soft drinks onto the trucks. The visible bottles contained Coke. The not-so-visible bottles also had coke, the non-fizzy kind. Peter bumped into the foreman, then continued walking ahead of me to the car.

I sank into the back of the Benz as Peter took the wheel. David slid in next to him. It was unorthodox to have two seconds-in-command, but the Raven brothers formed a tight pair, always had ever since their days growing up in foster homes and eventually on the streets. I’d crossed paths a few times with them when we were kids, gotten into scraps and taken enough Raven beat downs to respect them. We’d all worked together for the last boss, Vince. And when I picked up the pieces of his shattered reign and took over, they’d sworn allegiance to me on the first day.

“What’d you do with the finger?” David kept his head on a swivel, peering through the bulletproof glass of the windshield as if a threat would appear out of the cloudy May sky and swoop down with machine guns blasting.

Peter snorted. “I planted it in the foreman’s pocket.”

David shook his head.

“He’ll squeal like a bitch as he pulls out that fat little nugget when he’s going for a cig later.” Peter was the only Raven brother with a sense of humor. When he wasn’t busy being a number-crunching nerd, he reminded me of myself before I’d taken over the syndicate. I’d been funny back then, too. Everything was a fucking laugh. Not anymore. Now, everything was exhausting. Balancing an empire on the head of a fucking pin while dumbasses took potshots at you didn’t inspire humor.

I leaned back against the leather and took a deep breath. “Take me to the house.”

“What about the table at Paredo’s?”

“Cancel. Give Jimmy my apologies.” I gestured to my blood-splattered shirt. “I don’t think he wants me showing up at his restaurant looking like I just walked off Elm Street.”

“He wouldn’t give a shit.” Peter shrugged, but turned onto the freeway leading out of town. I’d set up shop in a large estate in Gladwyne. The rich-as-fuck neighbors minded their own business from their mansions while my men and I fortified a house that looked like it belonged in the English countryside. With two wings, a large pool, and a twelve-car, two-story garage, the house was far beyond anything I’d ever dreamed of owning. Being the boss came with perks. The house had belonged to the Genoa family for a century, but when the last Genoa boss fell, it had fallen empty. Now it was mine.

We passed through the secured gate with a nod to a sentry in a crisp suit. The driveway meandered through trees and landscaping until the house appeared, ringed with spring flowers, pretending to be a warm family home instead of a hive of bad men with murky agendas. The sun was low on the horizon, almost gone, by the time Peter pulled up out front. I rose and climbed the few steps to the entrance.

George opened the door and greeted me, the butt of his black pistol peeking from beneath his suit coat. He had a semi-automatic stored just inside the front door. We were on high alert after the Russians stepped up their meddling, and especially after their last assassination attempt only two months prior. I’d barely avoided a shotgun blast to the chest that time, and it took hours for my personal doc to remove every pellet of buckshot from my left arm.

“Mr. Franco.” Opal, my housekeeper, greeted me with a smile. She was excellent at pretending nothing was amiss despite the armed men who frequented the house. She’d been the housekeeper here, then at the last boss’s house, and then back here again once I’d taken it over. “I thought you were dining out.” Her eyes dropped to the crimson across my shirt. “Oh, I see. I’ll whip you something up.”

“It’s fine.” I waved her away and pulled off my suit coat.

“No, I’ll send it up.” She smiled.

There was no point arguing with her. I’d learned that much in the past five years. I trudged past her up the stairs, fatigue sinking into my bones.

“One more thing, Mr. Franco?” She called behind me.

“Can it wait till tomorrow?” I wanted to be alone, to sit and rest and try to figure my way out of the ever-growing mess of my empire.

She hesitated. “Sure. Yes, I’ll bring it up at breakfast.”

“Thank you.” I continued toward my bedroom, stripping my shirt and undershirt off as I went.

Tossing them on the floor of my bedroom, I closed the door behind me and leaned against the cool, heavy wood. The deep navy hues of the wall and duvet gave me a sense of safety, the familiarity of the room easing my frayed nerves and blocking out the echo of Vigo’s agonized scream that played on repeat in my mind.

The house was still, though I knew my men prowled around on silent feet, seeking out any threats. Under my control, they’d seen an increase in pay and a move toward less seedy work. No more prostitutes, and an effort to get away from the hard drugs. We’d ditched the heroin trade the prior year and were working toward ending our reliance on cocaine deals. My men were happy, and I made sure they stayed that way. It was the only thing that would keep me alive. Fear could only go so far.

The quiet filled my ears and attempted to overcome a whirlwind of thoughts and worries. I closed my eyes and simply leaned against the door, being still for a single moment. The first time in a long time.

Then I heard a splash.

I opened my eyes in the gloom and walked toward the wide windows looking out onto the back yard. The sun was gone, twilight fading into night, but the pool was lit, and under the surface, someone swam.

I walked onto the narrow balcony and leaned down, peering at the water. The lights illuminated long blonde hair and a delectable body wrapped in a tiny yellow bikini. Had one of my guys’ women come over for a swim? She hit the wall beneath me, then shot out again under the surface, heading toward the stairs at the far end of the rectangular pool.

Leaning farther over, I watched as she rose from the water and climbed the steps, her back to me. Her tanned skin gleamed in the low light, and her body made my mouth water. Long legs, round ass, narrowing waist, and what I could only assume would be a pair of perfect tits. My cock stirred for the first time in a long time.

Whoever brought her here made a mistake. I wanted her for myself, and there wasn’t a man on this earth that could stop me. It had been far too long since I’d felt the soft skin of a woman. The one who’d just landed in my lap was without equal. And if she had a smart mouth to go with that package? I was a goner.

I straightened and was about to go down to her when she twirled on her feet and stared up at me with the bluest eyes.

Sabrina waved and smiled, her as-suspected perfect tits bouncing with the movement.

“Fuck.” I swore under my breath and tried to mentally will my dick to deflate. It didn’t work.

She moved closer around the side of the pool, her body glistening with water. And then she said the thing that should have killed my erection, but didn’t. “It’s so good to see you, Uncle Nate!”